


bigger; ruined; yours

by guttersvoice



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Dysphoria, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trans Character, of the gender and body varieties, the tags make this sound really angsty but i dont think it is really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 13:10:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7440493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guttersvoice/pseuds/guttersvoice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shiro catches sight of himself in the mirror. He's changed a lot, since he last took the time to look at himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bigger; ruined; yours

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to write something cool and intelligent here, or something about how ive got a bunch of wip fics and i dont know how this one got finished first
> 
> but instead i think i wanna say that, like.. this is probably the first fic ive written involving my trans hcs that isn't in a bit of an idealised world to make it nicer for me to write, and certainly the first time ive focused on a character's discomfort with their body, and it was an Experience  
> dissociation/depersonalisation/whatever is, uh, pretty easy for me to write, though, hah
> 
> anyway voltron is good and i ship a lot of things but mostly this

_Who the fuck is that,_ Shiro wonders, not for the first time, and then mentally corrects himself, even though he's silent, and there’s no one there to judge him.

 _Who the_ heck _is that?_

By this point, it's long since clear that it's not some stranger trespassing in the Castle, but a mirror, and that he's looking at himself. It's not like he hasn't seen his reflection since his time in the Galra prison ships, but the other occasions that he's been confronted with a flat surface shiny enough he’s always found himself in a bit of a rush, preoccupied with more important things.

This time there's nothing to distract him, so he has to face up to his own appearance.

He's... bigger.

The jagged scar cutting his face in two, the white shock of hair at the front - he knows about them. It's not like he's come to terms with them - looking at them makes his stomach lurch like nothing else - but right now they're not the issue that's caught him in place, staring at himself and struggling to accept that this is him, this is what he looks like all the time, now.

What's got his attention above the obvious cosmetic details is the breadth of his shoulders. The muscles in his human arm, tenser than ever, but big enough his hand won't fit even halfway round, which feels ridiculous.

And - his chest is huge.

It's muscle, and it's something any other guy would probably dream of, but knowing that doesn't make it any easier to look at.

Surreptitiously - _there's no one else around,_ he reminds himself, _and even if there were they wouldn't care, it wouldn't matter_ \- surreptitiously, anyway, he unzips the shirt that stretches too tight across his chest. The scars are still there, along with too many newer ones. Way too many. He looks like he's been put through a meat grinder in places, but he can still find the neat lines left in place from the surgery six months before liftoff. Somehow, that alone is enough to calm him a little, enough to even out his breathing as he examines himself. It doesn't look like his body, but he can accept that it is, right now, with the scars he's traced with his fingers so many times right there for him to refind.

His fingers.

The cybernetic hand doesn't tremble, and that's worse, almost.

Shiro swallows, heavy, and holds himself still, and doesn't look at the arm that isn't his. Pushes away all the screaming from his core to _get rid of it, it's not part of me, rip it off and go without it's better not to have this alien thing attached to me_ and just - closes his eyes. He needs the arm; it’s useful for the team. Besides, some part of him has the knowledge, if not the memory of how, that the alien tech is what’s continuing to administer the hormones he needs to keep his body his. Inhales slowly through his nose, fills his lungs with clean, filtered air. These are familiar compulsions. Exhales steady and counting. Repeats until the cacophony of wrongness in his head has quieted to a low buzz and he can open his eyes again.

He still looks like a stranger in the mirror. Most of the scars are still mysteries to him, and he’s not sure if he really wants to remember where half of them came from. Thinking too hard about it might spark a chain reaction and leave him useless until he's sorted through and relived it all.

There’s no time for that. He needs to be ready to go at any given minute.

He trails fingers - human, blessedly imperfect, calloused and worn and his own - across a fist-sized patch of pale, shiny skin stretched over the curve of his hip bone, and along the thin, raised line drawn across his belly.

He doesn’t wonder. Shuts off that curiosity, buries it deep down for when he has time. Pidge is the curious one, anyway, it’s not something he needs right now.

All he has to do is be a strong leader. Doesn't matter if he can't look his own reflection in the face, doesn't matter if he comes close to breaking down three times a day, so long as he gets back up and leads his team.

He’s sick of looking at that someone who looks like a stranger. Walking away from it is easy, though. Easier than he expected - it’s a relief, knowing he can just step away from a mirror, even if he can’t step away from himself.

The zipper of his shirt gets stuck halfway up his torso, and Shiro’s world lurches a little. He fixed this already, and now his chest is too big for his own clothes again. The inside of his mouth hurts, and he’s distantly aware that he’s been chewing on the tender flesh.

“Well, that’s not fair,” he says, at the same time talking about his ragged cheek and the uncomfortable size of his chest.

“What's not?”

Keith’s stood in the doorway, and even his familiar voice, a sound that means safety and home no matter where they are, doesn't keep Shiro from dropping his centre of gravity as he turns, ready ready ready to spring straight into violent action.

There's no way Keith could miss that, of course: his instincts are better than Shiro’s, always have been. But he doesn't flinch, or comment, just stays where he is. Still, and as relaxed as he ever seems to get, arms folded across his chest.

“Sorry,” he continues, before his question even begins to get an answer. “I knocked, but the door slid open by itself. Thought you were the one who'd let me in till I saw you over there.”

He doesn’t make any attempt to enter the room until Shiro forces his shoulders to untense and stands straight and sheepish.

“It wasn't locked,” he says, and tries to laugh. It comes out as a single, awkward, ‘ha’. “Sorry, I must look silly, huh, leaping into battle mode with my - chest out.”

He'd tried to say something cruder, but flushed and stumbled when it came to it. To his credit, Keith goes a few shades pinker, too, but steps inside, letting the door slide closed behind him. Dark eyes almost flick down to Shiro’s distressingly prominent cleavage, but fix on his face instead.

“Uh, no,” he corrects him. There's a hint of a smile creeping onto his face. Shiro’s pretty sure he’s trying to hold it back so no mistakes can be made about him mocking Shiro, or something, but he remembers his life before capture well enough. Even if he didn't, he knows that smile, and knows it only comes out when Keith is actually comfortable. “I know you're not a fan of - uh, your chest - but, you know, most people find the image of muscles bursting out of a shirt pretty attractive, not silly. You're not an exception.”

Oh, now Shiro really is blushing. When Keith says ‘most people’, he either means his own perception of ordinary humans, or himself. In this case, Shiro’s willing to make the assumption and take it as a personal compliment. It helps. There’s something like relief in recognising that.

“That’s what's not fair, though,” he replies, and finally, actually relaxes. Not all the way, but enough. His fellow paladins, when he's actually with them and not just projecting his own feelings onto them, are safe territory. Keith even more so. “Bursting out of my shirt, I mean.”

He gestures at himself, and Keith’s brow furrows for an instant. His nose wrinkles a little with it, and something flutters in Shiro’s chest. He's cute - not that he'd ever say that aloud. Keith has never seemed particularly receptive to compliments about his appearance over his abilities.

After a moment, though, his expression clears, eyes widening and this time noticeably slipping to look at Shiro’s chest. Shiro doesn't mind.

“You-”

“I can't do my shirt up,” Shiro admits, even though Keith’s clearly figured that out. It's just a bit gratifying to see Keith this flustered because of him. Perhaps that's what spurs him on to ask. “Since you're here, do you mind helping?”

Keith runs his hand over his face, like he can’t believe what he's hearing. Or - no, like he’s finished five rounds with the gladiator and is wiping a handful of sweat off.

“Oh, you, uh - you need a hand? Sure.”

Shiro isn’t sure if that’s a joke about the red lion’s position as a part of Voltron or not, so he refrains from commenting, but he can’t help the smile.

Keith tugs gently at the zipper, to no avail.

“It’s stuck,” he says, and Shiro’s internal _no shit_ must show on his face, because Keith shakes his head. “No, I mean, the zip’s stuck, it’s not because your top’s too small. Though it is, since it’s from before Ker- before you left.”

Oh.

Not just the truth of the issue, but the fact that Keith said that the shirt was too small - not that Shiro is _too_ _big -_ come like a hit to the head. The good kind, the kind that knocks your thinking into place when you’re too dazed to put thoughts in the right places. The exact kind Shiro feels he needs half the time and struggles to give himself.

“Oh,” he says aloud. He can’t really find the words to express his gratitude without it coming across as weird. What kind of person is that thankful for someone pointing out a silly mistake they’ve made? It’s more than that, to Shiro, but explaining that would be -

\- _such an indicator of weakness; pathetic to the point that it’s almost funny; certainly evidence that he’s neither capable nor deserving of leadership; weak weak weak_ -

\- difficult, and time consuming, but he can’t shut the other thoughts up entirely, to the point that it takes a few seconds to register that Keith is talking to him.

“...ashi?” There isn’t pity in his expression, only understanding, and again Shiro overflows with appreciation and gratitude. “Takashi, you okay?”

There’s worry there, or concern, or something, but instead of wanting to placate and distract, Shiro - he doesn’t know. Something about hearing a voice he knows so well calling him by his given name rather than the shortened version of his surname he’d settled on at the start of his piloting career; it’s not just a reminder that he’s safe, but also that Keith knows him, properly, through and through. Lying to him will only make him worry more, and Keith holds worry in his throat and lets it out with violence.

He still hasn’t said anything, dammit. He makes himself meet Keith’s eyes, focusing instead of letting the whole room blur.

“You there, Takkun?” Gloved hands resting on his ribcage, and the nickname reserved for use when the two of them are alone, and the floor beneath his feet is properly solid for the first time since he glimpsed his reflection.

“I’m fine,” he says, and means it. “Sorry, I was - miles away.”

Keith nods. He gets it, Shiro thinks.

“I’m not gonna be able to unstick it like this.” He’s still talking about the zipper. Incredible. Not a word about Shiro losing half his attachment to reality; just make sure he’s okay and then get on with it. It’s standard, for Keith, who understands the need for privacy better than anyone, maybe, but it still manages to astound Shiro. Keith gives him a wry look. “You okay to wriggle out of it so I can fix it properly?”

He is okay with that. It comes as a bit of a surprise how okay he is, considering that just looking at himself only minutes ago had set him off.

But - he hesitates with his fingers wrapped around the edge of the shirt, before he pulls it up and off.

Has Keith seen what his bare torso looks like now? He can’t remember, but he’s pretty sure the answer is no. Maybe the night he crashed back, but so much of that is a blur.

“You don’t have to.”

Keith isn’t looking at him.

Shiro takes his shirt off.

Or, tries to, and gets stuck halfway, arms above his head. It’s not exactly designed for this type of removal, especially the wrong size.

The light coming through the black fabric pressed against his face looks like the endless expanse of space. It’d be comforting, in a strange way, if he wasn’t trapped in his own shirt. Instead, he just feels ridiculous, and a bit cold.

It takes Keith approximately three seconds to figure out why Shiro is struggling, and his snort is unmistakable even if it does sound like he’s at least tried to muffle it. Not that he can blame him for laughing. Imagining this from the outside is pretty funny - enough that he finds his own shoulders shaking with laughter, too.

He gives up trying to wiggle himself free and waves helplessly at Keith.

“Little help?”

It takes a little teamwork, but soon enough Shiro and his shirt are separated, and the two of them are sat on Shiro’s bed so Keith can fiddle with the zip and hopefully fix it. It’s not like he has anything else to wear: the cleaning cubicles in each of their rooms take care of washing and drying clothes at the same time as their bodies, so they’ve all stuck to the outfits they left Earth in when not wearing their armour. It’s not occurred to him to ask Allura or Coran about his options when it comes to clothes other than what he’s got.

He’s not one for fidgeting, usually, but sat silent and shirtless while Keith solves a problem on his behalf, Shiro can’t help but run his - human - thumb over the seam where his - cybernetic - hand meets wrist. There’s barely anything to feel at the join. It’s flawlessly constructed.

Keith reaches across, fingertips landing on the back of Shiro’s hand.

Skin-to-skin contact stills him.

“Uh,” Keith isn’t quite looking at him, still trying to move the zip one-handed, just a little. “I don’t - I don’t know if it’s what you wanna hear, but -”

He sets the shirt aside, mumbling a curseword under his breath and turning to face Shiro properly, to meet his eyes.

“It’s not their arm. It’s yours.”

All the breath is knocked out of Shiro at once.

Keith isn’t always the best at picking up on social cues, sure, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t understand other people. He’s always been this thoughtful towards - _Takashi -_ the people he likes. The people who’ve gained his trust. Of course he saw right through him, noticed something that small and figured out what it meant.

His vision blurs a little, and Keith continues. His fingertips are still resting on Shiro’s hand.

“And you - you’re not someone different because of them,” he says, and Shiro knows that. He knows in his head that’s true, but it’s hard to believe when he’s telling himself and seeing someone else in the mirror. “You’ve --”

Keith’s eyebrows draw together, and his lips move silently as he figures out his sentence. Shiro couldn’t interrupt even if he wanted to. There’s a lump the size of a golf ball in his throat, and if he opens his mouth it might push out tears, and he can’t cry.

“You’ve been changed - you’ve been damaged - but -” His hand settles flat and curls around Shiro’s. “You’re not damaged. I mean - those are different things, you know? I, uh. You’re still you. You didn’t stop being Takashi because the Galra tortured you for months. And I know you know all this, but - I don’t know.”

His head drops, the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Maybe hearing it from someone who’s known you before and after - I thought it might help.”

Shiro can almost hear the blood rushing in his ears. His fingers move by themselves to hold onto Keith’s.

“Can I kiss you?” He blurts the words out, finally, and the lump in his throat shrinks, maybe, a little. He’s not crying, either, even though he spoke, which comes as a relief.

And, even with the frozen expression he’s startled onto Keith’s face, he doesn’t think he regrets finally saying it, either.

Maybe that he didn’t say it earlier - or long ago. But if he had then, things now would be so different. His disappearance might have hurt Keith more than it did.

 _Or less,_ a cruel voice lodged somewhere between his head and his heart points out. Either way, things would be different, and either way, he didn’t say it before. He’s said it now.

He’s said it, and now Keith’s face is pink, and his eyes keep flicking between Shiro’s face and their held hands, and maybe Shiro has really fucked up this time - but that might be a smile forming, he thinks. He hopes. He doesn’t dare speak again; rather, he’s fine to wait as long as Keith needs to come up with an answer to such an abrupt request.

It’s hard not to read into every little change in Keith’s expression. Is that bewilderment, or disgust? Does biting his lip like that mean he’s trying to hold in how uncomfortable he is, or hiding a smile, or worrying about how his response is going to affect Shiro? The thoughts buzz louder in his head, bouncing off each other and catastrophising, but he keeps his face as steady as possible, and breathes, and stays patient. It's been seconds, barely, and he's overthinking it already.

Keith rubs his free hand across his face, and takes a deep breath.

He's always been fast: he and his lion are a perfect match. Shiro doesn't have a chance to move when Keith does - one moment his mind is alight with anticipation; the next there’s a hand on his bare shoulder, pulling him down, and soft, warm lips pressed firmly against his own.

It's brief, and chaste, but when Keith pulls away he’s flushed scarlet and he’s staring wide-eyed right at Shiro, and he's smiling. A bright, goofy smile, with no pretension or self-satisfaction. He's just happy. Shiro made him happy, and that revelation pounds in his chest and tugs his smile to reflect Keith’s. He did that.

“Yeah,” Keith says, visibly struggling to straighten out his facial expression.

“Huh?”

It's not that Shiro's completely speechless after being kissed, but it certainly seems to have thrown off his comprehension.

“Yeah, you can kiss me,” comes the extrapolation.

 _Oh,_ Shiro thinks, and licks his lips, perhaps a little out of nerves. Keith’s eyes are dark as he watches Shiro’s tongue dart out, but he meets his gaze again immediately.

“I've wanted you to for...a long time,” he continues, leaning in a little closer. His chest presses just a little against Shiro’s, and it's a moment's distraction but it's fine. He's fine, right now. “Since before you went away, even. I - thought you thought of me like a brother, or something, so I kept quiet, but -” he looks down. Squeezes Shiro’s hand. “I regretted that for a while. So when you said that, I, uh. Wanted to kiss you first.”

It makes sense, if he tries to rearrange his thought process to be as direct as Keith’s. He squeezes back, and Keith meets his eyes again. The smile is less huge, but it's twitching at the corners of his mouth and the way he looks at Shiro - like he's _good,_ like he's _wanted and welcome_ \- it’s the best Shiro has felt outside of forming Voltron in as long as he can remember.

“But yeah, you can kiss me all you want now. I'd like it. Uh, please do.”

His words are accompanied by the tiniest tug at Shiro’s shoulder, one he might not have been aware of himself. It's cute - he’s cute - and he's strong, and reliable, and passionate, and a thousand other positive qualities Shiro could list if he took the time to.

Instead, he cups Keith’s face in his free hand - the Galra hand, the cool metal against warm skin, but it's too late to panic and swap it now, the way Keith’s lips are parting, expecting. His eyelashes cast a shadow, and Shiro wonders how he's never noticed that before.

“Takkun.”

The breath accompanying the nickname brushes across his lips and takes hold of something at Shiro’s core. It's ridiculous that he didn't see this before, really.

This kiss is slower, drawn-out, hot breath catching in the space where they meet. One gloved hand slides from his shoulder to the back of his neck, keeping him close. His own hands stay blessedly still - he can run his fingers through all that hair some other time, he hopes - and his thoughts finally, finally settle, steady and quiet and letting him enjoy kissing Keith.

 _Fuck,_ he's kissing Keith. And Keith is kissing him, and making a low humming noise somewhere in his throat that makes Shiro shiver even as it warms him through and pools hot in his belly.

There’s two sharp knocks at his door and they spring apart, eyes meeting with the sort of wild excitement that comes with adrenaline bursts, only Shiro’s not sure if it’s from kissing or the potential of getting caught.

It’s not that he’d mind the others knowing, but he’d rather it be on his own terms, and he can see that exact sentiment in the startled smile Keith gives him before grabbing Shiro’s shirt and getting back to trying to fix the zip. Shiro’s only stood halfway up when the door slides open by itself as it did for Keith.

“What’s taking so --” Pidge’s sentence falls off halfway as they recognise that Shiro is shirtless and Keith is sat on his bed. Their grin could be described as somewhere between sly and elated, but there’s honest shock in their eyes, too. “Am I, uh, interrupting something?”

“No,” they both say at once. Shiro clears his throat and Keith continues.

“Shiro’s zip’s broken, so I was trying to help fix it, that’s all.”

Pidge raises one eyebrow, as slowly as possible, presumably to emphasise their disbelief. They keep glancing at Shiro’s chest, and it takes a few seconds of self-consciousness to realise that it’s probably disgust, and a few seconds more to realise that’s not it at all. He hadn’t considered that he - that his physical status, that just two of his countless scars - might be an aspiration for anyone, but Pidge keeps looking at them like the world’s been turned upside down.

_Oh. They didn’t know._

Of course they didn’t: Shiro isn’t exactly open about that sort of thing, and it wasn’t a matter of public knowledge as far as he’s aware.

It’s a discussion for later, he decides, filing the information away and hoping he retains it. Knowing that, even as mangled as he is, his torso is something that draws something between envy and aspiration, is - well. It’s hard to comprehend, but the evidence is right there in front of him, and maybe it’s because he just kissed someone he’s wanted to for ages, and the adrenaline is skewing his judgement - he can believe it, right now. Doesn’t need to grab himself and hide and scratch sickly at ruined flesh and lose himself to a past he’s forgotten.

He’s able to just stand there like a normal person, shirtless and somehow fine. It might not last, but he doesn’t mind appreciating it while he can.

“Well,” Pidge says eventually, gathering themself together, pushing their glasses up their nose. “Did Keith remember to mention that he was sent to get you for lunch?”

“Um,” Keith says.

“He did not.” Shiro can’t help the smile that’s starting to form.

“Got distracted, huh?” That one eyebrow raises even higher, and their grin gets even more smug in Keith’s direction.

“Can you blame me?” He gestures, not looking up from Shiro’s shirt, which he doesn’t seem to be having much luck with, and his ears are red. Shiro wants to kiss him.

Pidge laughs, and Shiro can’t help but join in, and Keith gives both of them the finger but he’s smiling.

“Okay, but seriously, the Castle has a bunch of clothes you can use as spares for now, you know,” Pidge tells Shiro, who didn’t know, and whose blank expression probably speaks for him. Pidge rolls their eyes and strides across the room to a part of the wall that has a glowing blue line across it. “Where did you think Lance and Hunk found their pyjamas? It’s not like they had time to pack. I haven’t been able to figure out if the Castle generates clothes for the occupant or if they’re just stored from ten thousand years ago, but if it’s the latter, the previous Green Paladin was almost exactly the same size as me, which seems unlikely.”

They push against the wall, and it springs open; a wide, deep drawer. It’s pretty comical to watch Pidge reach down into it, but Shiro pushes the laugh away.

“Also, they really liked fringe trim and neckerchiefs, apparently. Here, will this fit you?”

It’s a simple burgundy rollneck, with a - lilac? Shiro thinks so, or maybe lavender, but he’s never been much of an artist - stripe across the chest.

It’s too big for him, it turns out, but rolling up the sleeves to his elbows is enough to fix it for now, and feeling swamped in the soft alien knitwear is surprisingly secure and pleasant. Better than tight clothes emphasising every curve and plane of him.

“Suits you,” Keith tells him, and that’s enough to make him blush, apparently.

They can talk about what’s going on between them later, when Pidge isn’t grinning at them like they’ve discovered the secret of the universe and that secret is that they’re the smartest person in the room.

They are the smartest in the room, actually, there’s no doubt of that, but that doesn’t mean Shiro’s willing to discuss potential relationship changes in front of them, just as he’d rather keep any talk about gender between just him and them, unless they wanted otherwise.

As the three of them jog down the corridors to the kitchen where Hunk and Coran have been constructing something that might be considered a meal, Keith’s warm fingers hook around Shiro’s cold ones, and they exchange a smile. He can feel Keith’s warmth, and for a moment he really does believe, all the way through, that it’s his arm, and his hand, and his fingers wound into those of someone he likes.


End file.
